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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675749">I've heard it multiple ways</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDanny/pseuds/JustDanny'>JustDanny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Psych (TV 2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mystery!, all the pairings because why not, comic book science because i don't know how real science works, really so many AUs, there's also genderbending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:49:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDanny/pseuds/JustDanny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural detectives? Check. Genderbent characters? Check. Dark, brooding guy with trust issues? Check, too. American Duos winners living la vida loca? Check and check.<br/>When our heroes get into a non-abandoned warehouse housing the Evil Scientists Machines of Doom, they don't know they're in for multiple worlds of surprises. Will they be able to go back to their home dimension without seriously freaking out? (Spoiler: it's highly improbable).<br/>Or, the multiple-AU story nobody ever asked for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Burton "Gus" Guster/Shawn Spencer, Carlton Lassiter/Juliet O'Hara, Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer, Juliet O'Hara/Shawn Spencer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“So, what do you think will happen if I just--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time, Burton Guster manages to stop his best friend from blowing something up in the nick of time. It is a taxing job, constantly being on the lookout just in case Shawn decides to endanger them all once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer! Guster! This is not a toy store!” And, of course, it doesn’t really help that his only thanks are often heard in the guise of a barked threat made by Lassiter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he supposes he chose this. It is his own fault: he’s had many chances to worm his way out of this - ‘this’ being both the Psych business </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> their current mission -, yet he’s apparently decided against it. Well: there goes his often prided common sense. Doctor Heckler, his psychologist, will probably have a lot to say about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friendship with Shaw and his lack of a self-preservation instinct have brought him to an old, not-quite-abandoned warehouse this time around. Following his friend and backed up by Lassiter and, more reassuringly, by Juliet, they’ve made their way inside in search of a mysterious perp none of them have actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s still not entirely clear as to what this guy has done - something about a robbery at the Santa Barbara Museum -, but Shawn’s claims of a vision have apparently been enough to trick all of them into going there. Which, really, should be more than a bit concerning: even if it’s sometimes hard to believe, Lassie and Jules </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> the best detectives the SBPD has to offer. Yet here they all are, running around after a madman who happens to be Gus’s best friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously, Lassie, you need to lighten up. This is--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, there are no words in Gus’s mind to describe the place they have ended up in. There is, though, an almost identical picture he’s digging up from his memory: that of Cosmic Horror’s lab, back from the infamous Red Phantom movie. It is hard at first for him to draw the comparison, mainly because there are no nipple-showing superheroes around, but all in all the large room seems almost identical to the set in that scene. Which, in turn, as his inner nerd points out, was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing they got right from the original run of the comic. Sad but true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are large, whirring machines everywhere, most of which will probably go ‘boom’ as soon as Shawn touches </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which can be any moment at all, really. They’re lined up against the walls, with a somewhat disappointing screen in the middle, right on top of what seems to be a cheap picnic table. If he weren’t a tiny weeny bit scared, he’d be jumping up and down in joy at the realization. As it is, the only thing he dares to do is try and get Juliet’s attention: out of the other three, she’s the only one who may get it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say, Jules,” he starts, “don’t you think this whole thing looks like--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four or five things happen at right about the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, Juliet </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> get it, nods and says something about Cosmic Horror’s lack of a decent budget for his crimes that’d have him falling in love with her right now if she weren’t Shawn’s girlfriend and possibly about to die along with the rest of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Second, Shawn finally decides to press one of the buttons Gus has explicitly told him </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to touch. Hence the whole ‘dying’ thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Third, a lab-coat-enclosed figure that looks very much like himself drifts momentarily into Gus’s field of vision, screaming a very cinematic “No!” that, nonetheless, is a bit reminiscent of a six-year-old’s shriek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And four, everything goes ‘boom’. Just his luck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he’s - in all probability - dying, the last thought on Gus’s head is that he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> gonna kill Shawn over this. Or, at least, tell Henry. That’ll teach him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. #1. Gus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>#1. Gus</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he dares to open his eyes again, Gus has almost decided what gun caliber he’s going to use to shoot his very best friend in the word with. He still needs to talk it out with Lassiter, though - the man knows his guns -, but he’s thinking that, maybe, a bazooka would suffice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him almost a full minute to realize he’s not actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead; </span>
  </em>
  <span>even longer to take in the changes to his surroundings, most of them being a suspicious lack of Shawns or Juliets or Lassies in any shape or form. Also, the machines have stopped whirring, though they are still there. It sort of feels like being inside a comic book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he’s established that he’s: a)alive, and b)on his own, though, his body decides to do what it does best, and he runs out of the building with a totally manly scream. All in all, his very daring escape lasts a total of thirty seconds, up until he leaves the warehouse behind and comes face to face with the familiar if not exactly beloved shape of detective Lassiter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the―? Watch where you’re going, punk!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be honest, at this point Gus would welcome almost anything that made him feel less on edge. He’s been in the middle of an explosion just a couple minutes ago, and everyone but Lassie, from what he can see, has decided to up and leave him to face his trauma on his own. So, in the end, even the curt, snippy remark feels like heaven. For about a second, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank god,” he manages to breathe out. Unconsciously, he raises his hand in an attempt to grab the older man; but his instincts are finely tuned, and he catches himself in time. “Lassie, I don’t know what that was, so―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” Lassiter’s answering growl carries way too much aggression, even for him. “What do you think gives you the right to―?” The detective stops suddenly, lips pursed into a thin line as he manhandles Gus to get him a bit closer than the other man is comfortable with. He also squints at his face, realization landing in his eyes very slowly. Oh, gosh. He probably has a smudge somewhere. Maybe the triple-chocolate caramel cookie dough was not the best idea ever, as Shawn claimed. “Guster, was it? What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Gus thinks nothing of the sudden change, the softening of the older man’s voice. Lassiter’s always been a bit, well, odd, to say the least. And he’s also been in the middle of an apparent harmless explosion, he thinks. Maybe he’s hit his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, well, one doesn’t get to work side by side with Shawn Spencer without picking up some skills. So soon Gus’s powers of observation kick in, and he gapes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why―? How―? When―?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not making any sense. I think you’re concussed. Or on drugs. Are you on drugs, Mr Guster?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, eyes wide open and brain reeling, Gus finally manages to speak. Not that it helps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why do you have a beard?</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he croaks. Bearded Lassiter frowns. It looks much more intimidating than Non-Bearded Lassiter’s expressions, and that’s saying something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. That’s it. Get into the car. I’m taking you to―” His phone’s ringing interrupts him; with a curse, Bearded Lassiter picks it up, still eyeing Gus in a funny way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lassiter.” A pause, a grimace. “Yes, Chief. I’m on it. No, nothing’s out of place, just a― Yes, that’s what I said! I’m doing my fucking job,, dammit!” He shouts that last part into an apparently hung up phone, from a distance. A still somewhat confused Gus stares at him with a growing sense of unease. Not that Shaven Lassiter is a fun man to be around, but this version of the Head Detective seems to him a bit more on edge than usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should probably make a run for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, and because he’s halfway in shock, he just waits for the older man to violently shove the phone back in his pocket and grab his arm. Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t squeeze it, and there is no sign of his gun even coming out of its holster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m dropping you off at the hospital,” he hears Lassiter mumble. “I’ve got enough on my plate already to take care of junkies, too. Shit.” To be fair, that last word is not exactly spoken aloud: more like written all over the cop’s face. If a man could kill by only willing it, Bearded Lassiter would’ve been bringing numerous animal species into extinction, possibly starting with squirrels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, in this Bizarro world Gus gets to ride shotgun in a not very nice police-issued car. Now that he stops to think about it, everything in this Bearded Lassie seems to have suffered a downgrade, with the possible exception of his scowl, which has been perfected to dangerously high levels. Whole armies would have recoiled when faced with that scowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As promised, Bearded Lassiter does park at the hospital, pointing outside with his head and expecting Gus to take the hint. Gulping, his mind still reeling with the day’s misadventures, the confused pharmaceutical rep can’t help but take longer than he’d like to react. It seems to upset this very quiet, grumpy yet strangely civil version of Lassiter, who just gets out of the car himself while muttering some very non-flattering words about his passenger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it was very nice to see you again,” he finally says out loud while grabbing the younger man’s arm and helping him out of the car, “but I’ve got actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>work</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do. Not that I expect you to know―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lassie.” The sound of Gus’s voices startles both of them. It is, he thinks, possibly a sign of his very recent break with reality that brings him to interrupt the scowling man. Or a sudden death wish.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing is, to his own amazement, Gus keeps talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lassie, I’m― I think I’m dead. Or having a bad trip. Or, or― Why―? How did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>even</span>
  </em>
  <span> grow a beard? When?” By the end, he’s half crying, which makes Lassiter’s face twist into an apparent expression of </span>
  <em>
    <span>concern</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which in turn makes everything even more surreal and thus makes him wail louder. It’s a vicious circle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Mr Guster.” There is a slight tinge of panic in the cop’s voice, even though he’s doing his best not to show it. “Do you remember what you took? It’ll speed things up, so try and think before we―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’d actually be a relief, honestly, but Gus is pretty sure he hasn’t drank, smoked, sniffed or injected anything into his eyeballs. At all. So he shakes his head, expecting it to hurt - he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has to</span>
  </em>
  <span> have a concussion; it’s the only logical explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t. He is, to all effects, as clear-headed as ever. Yet he is still seeing a concerned, bearded Lassiter, and he has a feeling that the weirdness is just getting started. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs</span>
  </em>
  <span> Shawn here, he thinks; but his best friend seems to have vanished along with his sanity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, stop!,” he pleads, and though the detective keeps fussing over him, he does so silently. “I― Where’s Shawn?,” he manages to ask; before the older man, brow furrowed in an almost kind gesture, has the chance to answer, he keeps going. “And Jules? Where’s Juliet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Bearded Lassiter’s expression closes off, and the man lets out a growl. He doesn’t have a chance to speak, though, because chaos erupts all around them at that very moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that―?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t believe that’s him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s so cute!” “So hot!” “But where’s Shawn?” “Oh my! It really </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> him! Look!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voices, male and female, start out as a murmur only to grow exponentially as more and more heads turn towards them. Towards </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gus</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And then there is screaming, and pushing, and they’re suddenly surrounded by a crazed crowd apparently yearning for his blood. Or at least his clothes: a particularly handsy teenager makes a grab for Gus’s shirt, and it takes Lassiter’s most intimidating voice to get her to back off. Not that it holds things off for long, of course: like bubbly, chattering zombies, people keep getting closer and closer to them. It takes Gus a while to actually decypher what they are saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“TT! Love you, stud!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to have your children!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the best!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can Light My Fire anytime you want, baby!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The passenger door to the car opens. A businesslike Lassiter pushes him slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not waiting to be told twice, Gus obeys almost immediately. The detective quickly slides into the driver’s seat, honking the horn before speeding up and forcing some of the people out there to jump out of the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drive around for a bit, neither of them talking. Gus’s heart is beating at a rate he’d swear is incompatible with life. There are a million questions trying to crawl out of him, but none make it. He must look pretty stupid, he thinks. Or stoned out of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit.” Lassiter stops the car in the middle of a mostly-empty lot. His phone is ringing again - one look at the caller ID, though, has him putting it back into his pocket. “Alright, Mr Guster, I need you to listen to me. Do you understand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s talking to him like he would a particularly obtuse five-year-old. Which Gus can’t blame him for, though for practical purposes he’d prefer it right now if he’d talk to him like a particularly obtuse four-year-old instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he answers. “Yes, I do underst―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. That’s good. Is there anyone I should be calling, Mr Guster?” It is starting to freak him out, that ‘Mr’ thing Lassiter’s got going. Also, the beard. And the sex-crazed zombies. “Like, personal security? A manager, maybe? Or,” he seems to be sucking on a particularly sour lemon with this last proposal, “Mr Spenstar?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It stays there for a full twenty seconds, up until Gus processes the difference in pronunciation. He stares at Lassiter unblinkingly before exploding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is going on here, Lassie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is probably not the answer the cop was hoping for, based on his body language. Instead of punching him as he’s probably dying to do, though, Bearded Lassiter just takes a deep breath. Right before he speaks again, sadly, his phone goes off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit. Shit. Fucking― Lassiter.” He sounds exactly like he would if someone had taken him to a vegan demonstration, in Gus’s opinion. It’s almost sad. “No, I’m not― I don’t need― Hell, I’m telling you I’ve got this―! Al.Right.” he makes it sound like two different words, a mix of resignation and defeat. “I’ll meet you in twenty. Yes, of course. I’ll be― We’ll be at my place. See you there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an exhausted sigh, the older man kills the car engine and gestures for Gus to follow him outside. There’s not a lot of people out there, and none of them are currently screaming at him, so he finally deems it safe enough to follow Lassiter, who’s currently dragging his feet towards a not quite welcoming building and muttering to himself. He seems to do that a lot,, honestly. Maybe Gus is not the only one losing his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bearded Lassiter’s place, or what Gus assumes is Bearded Lassiter’s place, is not exactly nice. He doubts he’d get mugged on his way home at night, but only because prospective muggers would be too apathetic and depressed to even bother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside it doesn’t really get much better. He half-expects to find a dead body somewhere, but the only thing that greets him is a chubby cat that his host trips over before reaching his own door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least the apartment is clean, if a bit gloomy. It lacks the comfort and ambiance of Gus’s own, but in any case he doubts the older man spends a lot of time inside, judging by how at a loss he seems to be once he gets him settled on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, ehm, water? I may have― I may have soda somewhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gus takes the chance to study Bearded Lassiter more closely. It is not only the extra facial hair: there are many minor details that make him just― wrong. He’s a bit more chubby than he was right before the explosion, for one, and there’s a small scar next to his right eye. He looks, well; not older, exactly, but more tired. And nicer, in a way, even though Gus is pretty sure he’d have no qualms about shooting him dead, if it came to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence is just starting to get uncomfortable enough to make the younger man shift when the doorbell rings. With the look of a sheep heading to the slaughterhouse, Bearded Lassiter makes his way to the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, so, Mr Guster, I’m sure you remember detective―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s Head Detective, Carlton.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“―right. Head Detective O’Hara.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gus almost jumps out of the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the most noticeable change in Lassiter was the beard, Juliet O’Hara looks almost like a different person. A hard, no-nonsense expression in a lightly made-up face; short, practical looking hair, and a suit that looks like it was made just for her. When she sees him, though, her whole face changes, a different kind of tension taking hold of her, and suddenly she’s jumping up and down and grinning like a madwoman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away he was here, Carlton,” she chastises. She moves over to Gus with the speed of a cobra, or a very fast goat, and sits down next to him just to stare at him adoringly. It is creepy. Also a bit flattering. “I can’t believe it! I never thought I’d see either of you again after the Super Bowl thing. You were amazing, Gus! Can I call you Gus? Or is it―? Oh my God, I’m taking it too far, am I not? Shoot. I know it’s been a very long time, and I know you’re kind of a big deal right now, but I―” She trails off, and Gus looks up to Lassiter for help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell is she talking about? Lassiter!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a frown on the older man’s face. For the very first time, he seems to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gus. And he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not him, are you?,” he says at last. Softly, almost nicely. Gus shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Juliet who answers, frantically searching his face for who knows what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gus TT Showbizz, American Duos winner, The Voice coach, performer at the SuperBowl and author of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Healing Music </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Playa</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” She shakes her head, disappointed, as he looks at her in awe. “Who are you, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost choking on his own name, Gus speaks. “Just - me. Burton Guster,” he tells her, and fumbles into his pocket in search of his wallet. “I have― I’ve got an ID. I’m just― Gus. Just me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They talk over coffee. Gus tells them about Shawn’s vision - there’s a slightly amused look on Lassiter’s eyes as he mentions it -, about the warehouse, the lab, and the explosion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I was dead. I mean, it was all―” To his surprise, and right when Jules seems about to interrupt him and possibly call him a liar, Bearded Lassiter nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw it. Someone had called it in, said there were shady people lurking around. There was nothing, but I did see a flash of light, and another one when I was leaving. And then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> appeared.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Juliet seems to buy it, even though there’s the smallest glint of distrust in her gaze. Licking her lips, she raises her head to look straight at Bearded Lassiter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you―?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t tell you if I wasn’t,” he snaps angrily. She holds her palms up, but tries again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’ve been― I mean, I won’t tell. But it could―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, Juliet. We’ve been over this. You know I don’t drink, I don’t― I’d have thought you’d have a little faith in me by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For about a second, it looks like he’s just punched her in the gut. She recovers quickly, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, it’s just―” She bites her lip again and twists her face into her ‘I just realized something’ expression Gus has seen on it time and again. Suddenly, she jabs at him with her finger. “You’re supposed to be in Europe!,” she exclaims. “You’re both on tour! You can’t be in two places at once!” As she looks back at Lassiter again, a triumphant smile spreads on her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My point exactly,” is what the older man says. “Which doesn’t really explain―” But she doesn’t let him finish, looking instead at Gus earnestly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it now! Did you read issues 10-25 of the Red Phantom’s original run? The ones with Cosmic Horror?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scoffing, Gus nods at the insulting notion that he could somehow not have read that classic. Even if it is pretty awful. “Of course!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I mean, before she became Red Phantom’s lover-slash-archnemesis. Also, a girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. And it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>a hot</span>
  </em>
  <span> girl. And―”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no ideas what you nerds are getting at.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aha!” Victorious, Juliet smiles as realization slowly sinks into Gus before initiating Lassiter into the fascinating world of Red Phantom lore. “You see, in those issues, Cosmic Horror creates, and uses, the very first Interdimensional Hopper!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Excitedly, Gus nods in agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Inter- what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interdimensional Hopper,” is the younger man’s answer. “It makes perfect sense!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yeah! It does make perfect sense, I promise. At some point, at least.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. #2. Carlton</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>#2. Carlton</p><p>In a perfect world, none of this would have happened.<br/>
Of course, in a perfect world, Shawn Spencer would have been out of his life a very long time ago; as that isn’t the case, logic can only infer that his is, in fact, a hugely imperfect universe, cold and uncaring, and most of the time also severely confusing.</p><p>Now, for example. There’s been a flash of white blinding light, and a noise that’s reminded him of a flock of geese honking all at once, and even though he’s pretty sure it’s all Spencer’s fault somehow, he can’t find the annoying conman anywhere in order to scream at him. Not that he can see Guster either, or even O’Hara - and that’s far more unnerving than he’s willing to admit -, but he’s mainly focusing on Spencer now because he’d swear he’s just heard his voice somewhere.</p><p>“-around here, I swear!”</p><p>It comes from outside the room, with its whirring machines suddenly gone silent. There are irregular, skipping steps approaching, accompanied by the heavier stomping of a different pair of shoes. The lights, dim and unreliable as they are, flicker at right about the same time a couple of ominous figures show against the open door. Not even stopping to think, Carlton unholsters his weapon; he doesn’t get to shout the customary ‘freeze!’, however. In fact, he doesn’t get to do much of anything outside of gaping.</p><p>“Hey there, big boy! Hold your horses, will you?” Spencer’s unmistakable tone would have probably been enough to make him wish he could just shoot; as it is, it only makes the weirdness of seeing <em> that </em>other figure stand out a bit more. Because, if something this bizarre were to happen in Carlton’s life, of course that little pest would be involved. It’s just natural.</p><p>“What the-?” He doesn’t even get to finish his curse; next to Spencer, a man that <em> can’t </em>not be Carlton Lassiter lets out a groan.</p><p>“Great. Just great,” he hears himself say. Out of instinct - self-preservation, probably-, he puts his gun away. That seems to be a cue, and Shawn skips over to him, eyes open wide and a half worried smirk on his lips. The fake psychic spares a glance in the direction of Lassiter’s lookalike, who just shrugs, and tries to touch the head detective. Carlton pushes him off.</p><p>“What do you think you’re doing, Spencer?,” he half shouts. The younger man’s hands stop midway, and he turns to definitely-not-Carlton. </p><p>“Whelp, he does have your charm and your way with words, honey.” Which only results in a deeper, pained groan on the other man’s part.</p><p>“Seriously,” he manages at last. “Why is it always <em> me </em>?”</p><p>Spencer shrugs, alternately looking between the two Lassiters.</p><p>“I’ve no idea, but I’m starting to think someone up there,” he points to the moldy ceiling, "has been eavesdropping in to some of my deepest, darkest fantasies. Man, am I a lucky guy. I get to-”</p><p>“If I don’t kill you first,” is Other-Lassiter’s flat reply. It doesn’t seem to bother Spencer in the slightest, which is honestly refreshingly normal.</p><p>What happens next, however, is not.</p><p>“With love.” Flippant, decidedly unconcerned. The fake psychic plasters a wide grin on his face and crosses the space between himself and Lassiter 2.0 in a couple of prancing steps. “You know, some <em> very naughty </em> scenarios are coming to mind. Ever seen Terror Twins Take Over Toronto? It’s got this scene-”</p><p>Possibly in an attempt to shut him up, or in a fit of temporary insanity, not-quite-Lassiter takes the chance to plant a wet, chaste kiss on Spencer’s lips. Which would be horrifying enough on its own, thank you very much. No need to deepen it as they do, nor to start grabbing at each other like horny, teenaged bunnies.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Carlton Lassiter has seen enough horror and gore to last him a lifetime; oddly enough, he’s pretty sure it’ll be <em> this </em> scene the one fueling his nightmares for a while.</p><p>He actually has to cough a few times to get the two to disentangle. The sight he’s faced with is actually not that much better. But, even though his lookalike is flustered and has something that could be constructed as a smile with enough squinting on, at least he’s not giving mouth to mouth to Shawn Spencer anymore. It does help a little bit.</p><p>“Sorry about that, Invader Lassie.” Of-fucking-course, it has to be Spencer talking again. Lassiter’s fingers twitch, ready to go for his gun should the opportunity arise. “We’re still in the honeymoon phase, aren’t we, Carlytown?”</p><p>A trick. It has to be a trick, a well-planned, big-budget practical joke. That guy is probably an actor -and, dare he think, a Democrat at that-, and Guster has to be somewhere taking pictures of Lassiter’s open-mouthed reactions for posterity.</p><p>“No tricks, I’m afraid,” comes the absolutely fake Lassiter’s reply to his thoughts. “Also,” he goes on, this time talking to Spencer, “we are <em> not </em> in the ‘honeymoon phase’. You’re just part octopus.”</p><p>“Squid,” the younger man corrects him happily. “And a very sexy squid, if I say so myself.”</p><p>In a perfect world, none of this could be happening.</p><p>***</p><p>“So.”</p><p>Carlton Lassiter is a rational man. Most of the time, at least: that’s why he’s never let himself be roped in by Spencer’s absurd claims, even if he’s pretty sure things would be much easier if he just gave in.</p><p>Rationality, though, has a limit. And he’s more than reached it today. All in all, he thinks, he’s earned himself a bit of superstitious nonsense.</p><p>“Yeah.” The other Carlton Lassiter, who is wearing civilian clothes and a frigging <em> fedora </em> and has offered no explanation whatsoever as to his unnatural attachment to one Shawn Spencer, shrugs. “Honestly, we weren’t expecting- this. You.”</p><p>They’ve walked outside after securing the whole building. There is no trace of Spencer - of Sane Spencer; and sweet Lady Justice, Carlton’s never thought he’d be calling the man <em> that </em>-; Guster and O’Hara have also disappeared. Outside of the eerily quiet machines, to be honest, there’s absolutely nothing inside.</p><p>It doesn’t feel <em> right </em>. If Carlton were any other kind of man, more prone to fantasies and hunches and whatnot, he’d be concerned about that.</p><p>Apparently, Other Lassiter <em> is </em> a different kind of man.</p><p>“There’s something wrong with this place,” he muses, self-consciously adjusting his fedora. The hat’s a bit tipped over his face, which gives him a sligh gangster look, only more ridiculous. Carlton scoffs.</p><p>“You mean, besides-?” He can’t help it, really. He points to the both of them, and hears Spencer laugh unconcernedly in response.</p><p>“You know that’s right,” the younger man tells him. Them. Whatever.</p><p>“I think I need a drink.”</p><p>They reach Other Lassiter’s car, a Ford Fusion almost identical to the one Carlton has. Again, no trace of <em> his </em> car, of his partner or his annoying associates: getting out into the world feels worryingly like stepping into uncharted territory. It makes him queasy. Unsure.</p><p>“Yeah, not sure how <em> I’d </em> be taking it, in your place.” Again, Other Lassiter seems to be following up on a conversation that’s only happening in Carlton’s head. Shrugging, the fedora-clad man looks at him earnestly before speaking again. “Don’t worry too much about it. It just happens to me. At times.”</p><p>“Just ignore him if you’re not speaking,” comes Spencer’s chipper advice. “It’ll look like he’s reading your thoughts, but he’s not. More like eavesdropping, really.”</p><p>His confusion must be showing, because the younger man actually circles around the car to place a hand on his shoulder in sympathy. </p><p>“Alright, I know this is probably a lot. But, you know, Invader Lassie - the best you can do around here, around <em> us</em>, is go with the flow. We may even get some answers. Or not. We’ll see.”</p><p>With that, he goes back to the driver’s door and smoothly slides inside. Other Lassiter opens the back door for Carlton before getting in himself.</p><p>“You know, he’s right,” he tells him. “Also, I’m with you on this: we probably need a drink.”</p><p>***</p><p>Spencer drives them to a cozy little pub very close to the beach, in a part of Santa Barbara Carlton’s never really frequented. There’s not a lot of talking on the way, but there’s a whole lot of touching, little affectionate gestures between the other two men that make him feel violently <em>freaked out</em>.</p><p>They get a table at the pub, and a middle-aged barwoman waves at them familiarly, apparently unconcerned that there’s suddenly two Lassiters where normally, Carlton infers, there would only be one.</p><p>“It’s like Shawn told you. Just- don’t try to think about it too much. Life’s not going to stop just because it doesn’t make any sense.”</p><p>The way Other Lassiter speaks is honestly a bit gloomy. Also, the whole ‘reading his mind’ thing is starting to get to Carlton. There needs to be a trick, of course - he’ll find out how he’s doing it at some point, he’s sure.</p><p>“Yeah. If you do, fill me in.” Other Lassiter makes a move to stand up; a frowning Carlton stops him.</p><p>“Stop it, alright? Whatever you’re doing, I- It’s just too <em> weird</em>.”</p><p>“See, Lassiepants? I keep telling you,” Spencer’s chiming in is really not helping. Other Lassiter seems to feel the same way, because he glares at the fake psychic, who responds with a shameless grin.</p><p>“I’m getting us all drinks,” the younger man adds after a heartbeat. “Scotch, I presume?”</p><p>Both Carltons nod, and Spencer strolls happily to the bar, coming back after a couple of minutes with a bottle and some empty glasses.</p><p>They drink in silence for a while. Other Lassiter’s face is scrunched up, as if in thought. Carlton recognizes the expression from his own face: he’s trying to organize his ideas. The moment everything clicks is also reflected in a pretty clear, open way. He’d never noticed how expressive his face actually is. It’s a bit freaky.</p><p>“Alright. So, here’s my theory.” To Carlton’s surprise, Other Lassiter’s speech seems to rouse Spencer, make him perk up and focus on the older man. The fake psychic seems to have little to no desire at all to interrupt, mock, talk over or humiliate Other Lassiter in any way. Honestly, Carlton could live with that.</p><p>“My- I’ve been thinking. You’re, I guess you’re me,” he points out, pursing his lips together before continuing. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if you weren’t.”</p><p>“How?” It is not Carlton’s intention to question everything the other man says, but he needs <em> facts </em>. Actual, physical facts so he can function properly.</p><p>“I know. I’m sorry. Just trust me on this, I’d know.”</p><p>“He’s pretty good at things like that,” comes Spencer’s surprisingly sober agreement. </p><p>“You mean- This has happened before?” Carlton can’t quite keep the panic out of his voice.</p><p>“This?” Spencer shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Has it, Lassiekins?”</p><p>Said man shrugs. “Nah, don’t believe so. Not to me, at least.”</p><p>Carlton’s starting to get more than slightly angry. Before he can kindly let them know about his current state of mind, though, Other Lassiter speaks up again.</p><p>“Alright. So, again, my theory. There’s got to be a- a door somewhere in that building. I’m thinking one of Guster’s nonsense comic book things. A door to a different world, maybe, to different- <em>us</em>. Me. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”</p><p>Of course it doesn’t. Carlton scoffs, and without a word pours himself a second glass of scotch, drinking it up almost immediately. It doesn’t make any sense; but, well, he has nothing better to offer other than the ‘just dreaming’ defence. And he’s pretty sure he’s awake. Painfully so.</p><p>“Whatever,” he says at last. “How do I go back? I’m not spending the rest of my days in this nuthouse of yours.”</p><p>At that, both his drinking companions crack up. Hearing himself laugh along with Spencer is an eerie experience.</p><p>“I guess you’re talking about the- us.” Carlton reluctantly nods, and Spencer, still with tears in his eyes, does his best not to break into laughter again. “Man, can you believe this guy? Hey, Gina!,” he says, calling to the woman behind the bar. She looks long-suffering, as if she resigned herself long ago to having Spencer around. “He says this,” he points at Other Lassiter and at himself in turns,” is mad! Isn’t that hilarious?”</p><p>To her credit, the woman almost pretends to be interested in them for half a second.</p><p>“Don’t think I can tell what’s mad anymore,” she drawls out before going back to cleaning out glasses. “I’ll get you three something to eat in a while.”</p><p>***</p><p>It takes Carlton about two and a half more scotches to relax. Go with the flow, as Spencer said: he accepts it when his glass keeps getting refilled, when Gina shoves a plate stacked with wings in front of them, and when Other Lassiter and Spencer - Weirder Spencer, as he’s silently dubbed him - cling to each other in a way that would be sweet if it didn’t go against all laws of nature.</p><p>He also just takes it when Other Lassiter loses the fedora, revealing longer, dishevelled hair underneath that only half covers a perfectly round, perfectly impossible <em> hole </em> in the middle of his forehead. Oh, he stares alright, but instead of asking he digs into his fifth honestly delicious chicken wing.</p><p>The man, for whatever reason, still feels the need to explain it, or try to.</p><p>“Got shot,” he says, not quite pointing at it. It sounds nonchalant, but next to him Spencer’s grown very tense, almost protective. “In and out, clean shot. You should see the back.”</p><p>Carlton would rather not, to be honest. Feeling slightly sick, he finally lets curiosity get the best of him.</p><p>“But you’re- I mean, you’re <em> alive</em>,” he says, very definitely <em> not </em> panicking. Undead Lassiter shrugs.</p><p>“Don’t think so. Technically,” he adds hastily when it looks like Spencer is about to intervene. “But, well, as I told you: life doesn’t stop just because it doesn’t make any sense. Case in point.” He points at his forehead. Carlton can only imagine how it looks like on the exit side of the wound.</p><p>“So,” he starts after a while, “I guess finding yourself in an abandoned warehouse isn’t the strangest thing to ever happen to you,” he muses. It’s Spencer who answers.</p><p>“Not really. Though I still don’t get what any of this has to do with the Museum bit.”</p><p>Some lights dully shine in Carlton’s brain when he hears that, though he pays them no mind, focused as he is on his sixth - or is it eighth? - glass of scotch.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Yeah. Also, the vision didn’t show-” </p><p>With a chuckle, Carlton interrupts Spencer.</p><p>“So you’re an <em> actual </em> psychic in this- reality, aren’t you? Figures.”</p><p>Spencer laughs at that and shakes his head.</p><p>“Don’t know about your world. Here, I’m just very, very good at puzzles. And handsome and quite talented at- Hey!” His protest is almost as weak as Other Lassiter’s playful push. He soon gets serious, though - which is so unlike Spencer that it does reinforce the parallel-world theory. “But, no psychic. Not even a pretend one anymore, Invader Lassie. My Lassiekins is, though,” he adds brightly. Carlton scrunches up his nose.</p><p>“He’s what?”</p><p>“A psychic. A for real, honest-to-god one, at that. I have to say, though: it was much more fun when I was faking it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. #3. Juliet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>#3. Juliet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her instincts take charge when the white light erupts, and she takes cover even as her mind is still trying to understand what the hell is going on. Hands going automatically to her gun, it takes her a while to see clearly again, and a bit longer to make sense of what’s going on around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dammit! I thought we had them.” Carlton’s familiar voice is coming from the door; blinking, Juliet gets herself standing and takes a wobbly step towards her partner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Lassie, I’ll give you that: </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> we shouldn’t have stopped for nachos on our way here. I’ll deny I ever said that, though!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing with relief - both Carlton and Shawn seem to be okay, though her boyfriend’s ramblings are making even less sense than usual -, it takes Juliet almost ten seconds to notice the matching, weird expressions both men are wearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spencer?” Lassiter’s adopted that fake-relaxed stance he has, the one that’s supposed to make perps at ease while allowing him to shoot at them at a moment’s notice. “Any helpful, psychic insight here? Is she--?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shawn shakes her head before bringing a finger to his temple in his patented vision-having move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really. But-- wait! I don’t think she’s one of them. In fact, I sense… She's a cop?” He seems disappointingly freaked out by the fact, bearing in mind he’s had no problem at all with her job up until that point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The good news is, it still seems to do the trick. Carlton visibly relaxes, though he eyes her with suspicion and scoffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A cop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Juliet O’Hara may not be psychic, and perhaps it takes her longer than it should to come to certain conclusions - a side effect, she sometimes muses, of having come to rely on Shawn for so many things she shouldn’t -, but she’s not stupid. Also, she may or may not be what some call ‘a huge nerd’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faster than she can really keep track of, her brain supplies her with a hundred different scenarios, a thousand not-quite-plausible explanations for the two men’s bizarre behaviour. And, just as quickly, her inner geek trips over herself in her haste to scream “Cosmic Horror’s lab! Gus was right!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows what it means. She’s got an encyclopaedic knowledge of three, maybe four things in this life: federal and state laws, baseball, comic books and, lately, Shawn Spencer’s quirks. And, if one were to stand in the middle of a carbon copy of Cosmic Horror’s lab, her mind would automatically go back to issues #10-#15 of the original run of Red Phantom, and to the invention and disastrous use of the Interdimensional Hopper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, gosh. She’s in a parallel world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhm, yes, actually. I’m detective O’Hara,” she says; she’s about to cautiously add ‘from Miami’ when her not-partner’s face breaks into what can only be described as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. This is worse than she’d thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow. That’s-- unexpected,” he tells her; he actually moves closer, holding out his hand for her to shake. “I thought you wouldn’t be transferring in until next week. Carlton Lassiter,” he adds. She’s only heard him use that tone of voice a handful of times, and always when it was only the two of them. He sounds… nice. “Head Detective for the SBPD. I think I’m going to be your new partner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only takes a moment for Shawn to imitate him, joining the both of them as they are in the middle of a firm, surprisingly warm handshake. To Juliet’s shock, however, it is Lassiter who introduces this version of her boyfriend, who looks a bit scruffier and is wearing a pair of Converse she’s pretty sure she’s thrown away. So, single, maybe: the way he looks at her certainly seems to confirm it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s Shawn Spencer. You’ll be seeing a lot of him: he works as a consultant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Psychic</span>
  </em>
  <span> consultant,” Shawn pointedly corrects. If Juliet’s eyes aren’t tricking her, there’s a half grin on Lassiter’s face at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still haven’t won the lottery, Spencer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got-- bigger fish to boil,” is the psychic’s answer. Juliet corrects him out of habit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fry. Bigger fish to fry.” The man shrugs, not at all impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard it both ways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In her vast experience as a comic book reader, Juliet O’Hara has come across many unusual things. There are the bajillion parallel worlds one can see in the different Marvel incarnations, or the reality-altering meddling with time travel in Umbrella Academy. There is even her recently discovered onion-shaped multiverse from Black Science, which sort of worries her because it’d make so much sense right now. But back to Red Phantom: </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Interdimensional Hopper has indeed been built and put to use, she’s screwed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to reflect on it on the way to wherever it is Lassiter is taking both her and Shawn. She makes it as far as quickly analyzing several suspicious elements before getting distracted by her current situation. She highlights that: a) the lab was a carbon copy of the low-budget horror that was the Red Phantom film; b) Cosmic Horror’s machine needed a thingamabomb from an archaeological museum to function (and, in her reality, the Santa Barbara Museum’s theft is starting to look more and more relevant); and c) one could only count on one thing to stay the same along the different universes in Cosmic Horror’s plan, and that would be the villain’s lair. Which has remained unchanged, as far as she knows, and which she’ll have to visit again before this universe’s Juliet O’Hara completes her transfer, several years later than she herself did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d actually like to keep mulling it over for a while, but as it is, there are more pressing matters at hand. First and foremost, she’s freaking out. Not much, not really; she’s not going to start running around like a headless chicken, and it is highly improbable that she’ll scream anytime soon. But it must be noticeable enough that it’s making her look like a rookie, and it is prompting her travelling companions to try and ease her transition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is, to say the least, weird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yes, she’s had long, deep and meaningful conversations with both Shawn and Carlton back home, been comforted by both in their very particular and unhelpful way; but never in a million years could she have imagined it’d be both </span>
  <em>
    <span>at the same time</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They’re actually quite civil to one another - almost like whenever one’s worried about the other back in her world, only with no lives at stake and an unsettling general atmosphere of camaraderie. She’s pretty sure she’s sweating like a pig.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, how are things back in Miami? Spencer, didn’t you use to live around there at some point?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, man-- it was like, way back, and I was a kid. I’m sure Detective O’Hara has some great stories from over there, don’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, this whole car ride, is what she expected to find in Santa Barbara more than six years ago. An older, more experienced - and, dare she say, a bit sexy - partner willing to both teach her and learn from her; nice, welcoming coworkers who’d make everything just a tad easier. Instead she’d got a passive-aggressive (or plainly aggressive at times) Head Detective With A Past, and a will-they-won’t-they six-year relationship with a manchild she’ll admit she loves dearly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she can spare a few days to find out more about this universe, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A still bizarrely good-humoured Carlton drops her off along with Shawn when she tells him she wants to see the beach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have plenty of time to get settled next week,” he tells her. “Still, if you want to see the station, I can get you there tomorrow.” Then, in a twist that has her almost suffering a heart attack, he adds: “I don’t know where you’re staying, but we can grab something and have dinner at my place later, so I can fill you in.” He must see the look of alarm across her face, because he chuckles - he </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> chuckles; she didn’t even know he knew how to do that - and shakes his head. “It’s not like--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m very sorry, Detective O’Hara, but our manly-man Head Detective is sadly taken.” Shawn’s got an amused grin on, and Juliet feels herself redden. This is worse than the ‘not interested in interoffice romance’ stakeout, she thinks. “I, on the other hand, am free as a bear, and will be honoured to show you the beach and eat Thai food gratis if it suits you.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and she feels a familiar sense of wonder when she watches him. She nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a plan.” It’ll let her learn more about this place, she thinks. It’ll also help her ignore the growing uneasiness in her gut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’ll go get you both as soon as I pick up the kids. Five-ish?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever since she’s known him, Juliet’s seen Carlton leave the station at the actual end of his shift maybe three, four times. She’d be freaking out about his going home at around five instead of nine if only she had any sense of wonder left from having heard the word ‘kids’. As it is, she just lets her head move on its own and give its assent, hoping against all hope that her eyes will stay in their sockets the few seconds it takes for the car to trail off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As promised, Shawn seems to be willing to spend the rest of the day with her. He takes Juliet to the beach, to the same spot they’ve both been to so many times in her own world, and chats with her as much as she’ll allow him. He doesn’t get too personal, though; it takes Jules almost a whole hour to realize he’s gently interrogating her. That, underneath his easy-going demeanor and plentiful smiles, Shawn Spencer - who is just painfully identical to her own Shawn Spencer ® - is suspicious of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn psychic vibes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, for a while she does nothing about it. She lets herself be probed and poked at, doing her damnedest to appear every bit the newcomer she’s supposed to be here. It is almost half past four when she reaches the conclusion that, to be fair, Shawn’s possibly the only person she knows who could somehow help her go back. Breathing in deeply, she turns to face him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” she says, suddenly serious. His expression doesn’t change, but she’s learnt to read his eyes fairly well - she can tell he knows she knows. “Fire away: I know you’re dying to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To this Shawn’s credit, he doesn’t beat around the bush. He charges, head on, no fear of the consequences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. Since you’re offering… Who are you? And don’t start with the whole-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets her wallet and police ID out of her pocket, thrusts them in his hands. Silently, he examines both, his eyes getting larger in realization.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re psychic, right?” When he nods, she keeps talking. “Well, then you know I’m telling the truth. I really am Detective Juliet O’Hara. Junior Detective, in fact; though I’ve been working for the SBPD for six years now. Almost as long as you have, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He seems properly impressed by all of it, but is apparently expecting more, so she tells him, fingers crossed. “The thing is, hear me out; the thing is, I’m not from- here. From this reality. I’m pretty sure I’ve crossed over, somehow - and I’ll probably need some help getting back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a short, charged silence after that. Then, slowly, Shawn nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. I get it now.” Juliet allows herself a relieved sigh, a small smile. “You’re nuts. I mean, I’ll hand it to you: you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span> nuts, you’re like a Mrs Lassiter there - and I don’t mean it like, his wife, but like a female version of Lassie, all suited up and serious. But, well, nobody’s perfect,” he adds. “I can honestly do crazy. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Juliet slaps him. Well, more like punches him, hard, in the gut, and sends him reeling to the ground. This Shawn’s much softer than hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re not going to help, then I’m-” She doesn’t get to finish the sentence; he interrupts her with a groan and something that sounds like out-of-breath words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I never said I wasn’t helping!,” he whines. “I told you, I don’t mind crazy. But I thought you should know you’re nuts, in case nobody told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, Juliet helps him up, gets her wallet back for her troubles, and scoffs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? You believe in </span>
  <em>
    <span>aliens</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Shawn.” He shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Duh. Who doesn’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> vampires.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not werewolves, though,” he points out. “That’d be crazy. Like you.” She glowers at him, and he takes a small step back before plastering a smile onto his face. “Seriously, where did you learn to do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The punching?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The glare thing. I swear, it almost looks-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been working with Lassiter for six years. Back in my world, I mean. He doesn’t do it here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shawn nods and starts walking again, mindlessly taking them both to the Psych office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he does. But he’s a softie at heart, you know. I learned a long time ago not to take him that seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Juliet laughs at that. Some things, she muses, aren’t that different. Not even when one crosses over to a different reality. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. #4.Shawn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>#4. Shawn</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have listened to Gus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s alone when the white light turns off, nobody there but the suddenly silent machines and his big old self. Not for the first time in his life, Shawn fervently wishes he’d listen to his best friend. Not that he’ll ever let him know, but Gus’s self-preservation instincts tend to work way better than his. In other words: he’s usually right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, cursing under his breath and doing his best not to think too hard about it, he makes his way outside, exploring each and every corner of the warehouse in search of the other three to no avail. There is no trace of any of them: the best, less insane explanation he can come up with involves his getting knocked out and somehow none of the others realizing they’ve left him behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second best explanation is aliens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is also a significant lack of cars outside of the building. It doesn’t so much surprise him as just annoy the hell out of him: when the universe decided to create Shawn Spencer, it made him both awesome and terribly allergic to long walks. Still, waiting around will do nothing for him; also, his phone is dead - as usual - and his stomach is mostly empty. They should’ve stopped for nachos on their way here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doing his best not to dwell on the mystery of his disappearing companions - he has the feeling that, no matter the actual answer, he’s not going to like it -, Shawn starts walking towards the only place he can think of: the station. With a bit of luck, the aliens will have thoughtfully decided it’s just not worth listening to his friends’ grumbling. Mostly Lassie’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him almost an hour and a half, not counting the half hour stop he makes so that he can try and get a free smoothie out of an unsuspecting Java Juice employee. By the time he reaches the bullpen he’s exhausted, sunburnt and ready to just let alien-abducted Gus take him home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then everything goes to hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alright, maybe it’s nothing as dramatic as that. There are no gunshots or explosions or screaming going on at the station: everything is, in fact, really quiet. Mindnumbingly boring, as it usually is right until Shawn decides to shed a little light on everyone’s lives (what Lassie calls, for some reason, his ‘disrupting the peace’). But there is something just </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span>, something he doesn’t quite process at first. The feeling gets even worse when Karen Vick, sporting a new hairdo and looking slightly sleep-deprived, waves at him from Lassiter’s desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Shawn! I thought you were already in - thought I’d seen you go down with Strode a while ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is- odd. The way she talks to him, overly familiar and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. For about a second it almost obscures all the little things that just aren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It feels as if somebody had painstakingly moved everything inside the station - furniture, decorations, people - an inch to the left. Shawn’s brain keeps screaming at him to pay attention, but big changes - Vick’s hair is much longer than it was this morning, and how the hell did she manage to grow it that much in a few hours?; there is no trace of Juliet other than a bunch of highlighters on her desk, now occupied by a slightly bemused young man; the coffee machine is on the wrong side of the office - keep getting ignored in favor of small ones. Different perps stare at him from the walls than they did this morning; McNab’s uniform is more ruffled than he’s ever seen it, and nobody, absolutely nobody, bats an eye when he crosses the station. Not that there’s a welcoming party every time he drops by at this point, but there’s usually </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Something other than Chief Vick’s amused glare, or what’s-his-name over there - the unjustly pretty guy usurping Jules - nodding at him shyly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you planning on getting back to work anytime soon? Or are you waiting for the Chief to come kick your ass?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he’s not dreaming, which is sounding more and more like the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> plausible answer, then this has to be some sort of practical joke. Only he can’t really think of anyone cruel enough, or resourceful enough, to play it. He swallows nervously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In front of him, Chief Vick -who’s just revealed to him the existence of an apparent Uber-Chief that seems to hold some sort of power over him - is waiting for an answer. Feeling like he just stepped on scene on opening night not knowing any of the lines, Shawn decides to do what he does best: he improvises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Right. Just needed a bit of a break, Chie-” He stops himself, but he’s already slipped. An amused chuckle reaches him across from Juliet’s desk. What’s-his-name glances over at Vick, a handsome smile in his stupidly handsome face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chief,” he says. “Right.” She seems to share his amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’</span>
  </em>
  <span>s ever stepping down,” she says, pointing at her own - though apparently not anymore - office with her head. “Like it or not, you’re probably retiring sooner than he is, Shawn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shawn’s mind, a wild and quick and utterly horrible thing that it is, decides it’s fair game to try and imagine who this ‘he’ may be. The best - that is, the worst - it can come up with is a mustachioed Carlton Lassiter in full-on tyrant mode; it makes him shiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I better get going,” he says after that. Fishing around the non-stopping reel of thoughts that is his head, he manages to rescue something Vick’s just mentioned. “I need to get down with Woody; that is, Doctor Strode.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not waiting for an answer, he finds his way to the morgue quite quickly. That, at least, hasn’t changed. Most things haven’t, in fact; not in any significant way. Other than his friends and girlfriend being nowhere to be found, Vick’s apparent demotion and the terrifying possibility of a Chief Lassie lurking around in the darkest corners of his mind, he tells himself as he opens the door to Woody’s realm, there’s nothing inherently </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other, you know, than </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the-?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the back of the cozy autopsy room, behind a half-dissected corpse, Shawn Spencer raises his head to stare in confusion at Shawn Spencer ®. He makes a choked sound that’s quickly mirrored by the newcomer and leaves the scalpel on the table in what is possibly the only good call his brain is capable of at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What on Earth-?” Breathing in and out, Shawn does his best not to freak out at the sight in front of him. The Shawn he’s just startled is not, after all, a perfect copy of himself - if it’s an alien ploy to take over his life, they’re going to have to try harder than this. He’s overdressed, for one: under his half-buttoned scrubs, he can clearly see the start of a shirt and, dare he say, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tie</span>
  </em>
  <span>. An actual tie, at that, not a clip-on. Also, the hair’s just terrible. He’s only seen that much hair gel on Lassie’s most stick-up-the-ass days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, you seriously need help,” he hears himself - as in, </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the actual, non-alien-pod-person Shawn - say. He chuckles, too, because it’s all he can think to do, and he’s rewarded with a similar, yet more desperate, sound. The smarted-up Shawn seems to agree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would seem so,” he says. The voice is luckily not even slightly alien. “Woody,” he calls out. From somewhere even deeper into the morgue realms comes a cluttering noise, and about five seconds later the never before truly appreciated body of one Woodrow Strode makes it into the room. “Woody, man, did you put something in my coffee again? I think I’m seeing things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coroner takes a second to examine the both of them studiously before shrugging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so. Hey, there: Woodrow Strode,” he introduces himself. “Shawn never told me he had a brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in the way Woody’s eyebrows move makes Shawn wish he could sink into the ground. Fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t-” Both Shawns look at one another, slightly annoyed, before trying again. “I don’t have any-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrubs-wearing Shawn is the one who recovers more quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not my brother, Woody. He’s not- I mean, I don’t know what he is!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woah, stop it there, mister! No need to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> offensive.” The Shawn with the terrible cowlick answers with a glare. Real Shawn, as he’s decided to call himself, shrugs it off. “I’m human, same as- Actually, I don’t know if you’re human, huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I am! What would I be, otherwise?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shawn - Real Shawn- frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sound more like a robot. Hell, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dress</span>
  </em>
  <span> more like a robot than I do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robot Shawn is not even slightly amused. “Woody. Not helping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, he walks around the laid-out corpse in front of him until he’s face to face with the newcomer. He then proceeds to touch Real Shawn’s face until he gets slapped away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ouch!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See? Human. And you seem convincingly human, too- though you could still be a Cylon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Possibly-A-Cylon Shawn glares again. The gesture feels vaguely familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheesh. Alright. I guess both of us </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>human, then, until proven guilty,” Shawn claudicates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses for a second, thrown off for a moment. Luckily, Woody helps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of being a secret Cylon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied, both Shawns nod. Then, Not-Yet-Proven-A-Cylon Shawn frowns in thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, who are you? Are you, like, my evil twin? Did you come here to kill me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shawn shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not! For all I know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> could be my evil twin, trying to take over my life!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smartass Shawn scoffs. “Faring much better than you, I’d say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before things can get heated, though, Woody interrupts them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, guys; just calm down. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>evil. Now, if you could just-” He interrupts himself, a look of concern crossing over his face. “Evil Shawn: do you think he’s having a heart attack?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he mentions it, Cowlick Shawn is sure grimacing a lot. He’s also muttering something under his breath, and though he’s probably not dying anytime soon - Woody’s face falls when he’s told that - he does seem to be taking this pretty badly. At a certain point, though, he seems to reach a conclusion. He stands even straighter, if possible. Jeesh, that guy </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have some robot parts, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, Shawn: you can do this.” Not knowing if he’s talking to him, Real Shawn makes an attempt to interject something, but he’s cruelly talked over. “You’re a doctor, alright? Man, you’re a frigging </span>
  <em>
    <span>genius</span>
  </em>
  <span>! You can do this. Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Woah. Maybe you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> my evil twin after all. I mean, talking to yourself- villain move, much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arching an eyebrow, Evil Shawn scowls and takes off his scrubs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d say </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> reaction to having a- to having you here is quite adequate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re spending too much time with Gus.” Evil Shawn’s eyes glint suddenly, and he pats both Shawn and Woody in the back with far too much enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it! Gus can help!” Though he very much doubts his best friend - who has, by all intents and purposes, been abducted by aliens along with Lassie and Jules- can help, Shawn quickly agrees to Evil Shawn’s plan. Things are already quite confusing and upsetting - what could make it worse?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay. Part one of the not very well thought plan to find out what’s going on is easy. Shawn - Real Shawn - just needs to leave the station before shift change, which is about now, and not talk to anyone at all nor get their attention in any way. Get out of there, wait for Evil Shawn at the meeting point: fairly straightforward. He’s even got Woody’s phone with him, on condition that he not tweet anything but Seinfield quotes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so on edge that it takes him several minutes to realize Pretty Boy from the station is tailing him. And the guy’s not even subtle: he’s stomping like an elephant in his amazingly unflattering grey suit, looking for all the world like a puppy who’s just destroyed his owner’s favourite pair of slippers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hoping to either lose him or have him take a different turn, Shawn doesn’t even stop until he reaches the meeting point Evil Shawn’s directed him to. It’s far enough from the station to make running into anyone from there highly unlikely, yet still close enough that Evil Shawn will have time to call for backup if Shawn himself ends up being a murderous shapeshifter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the way there, the fake psychic does his best to try and figure out what’s going on. He briefly debates calling Gus himself, only to discard that thought quickly. He knows few things for a fact, but what little he’s gathered is making this whole thing look like a Twilight Zone episode or, better yet, a Christmas Special. Yeah, that sounds about right. He’s had one of those before, knows how they work. Evil Shawn’s clearly the poor-quality version of himself that actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened</span>
  </em>
  <span> to his father’s advice and allowed Lassie to become Chief and grow a moustache. Also - he shudders at the thought -, he’s probably still dating Gina.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Shawn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have a long time to ponder, though: Pretty Boy catches up with him as soon as he’s settled on a bench. For about a second he tries to guess what this guy’s role in Evil Shawn’s life is. Maybe, he thinks as a wavering smile is thrown in his general direction, he’s the blonde, normal-sized version of McNab. Only he’s pretty sure he’s seen Buzz at the station, and in any case, this guy seems to be a full-on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Detective</span>
  </em>
  <span>, despite looking twenty-something and carrying himself like a thirteen-year-old attempting to impersonate his dad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, perhaps he’s being a bit mean. But this guy’s got great hair, while Christmas Special Shawn just- doesn’t. It should be illegal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he waves back. He honestly expects Pretty Boy to turn and go his merry way after that. Instead, the blonde detective plops down next to him, and Shawn’s spider-sense starts to tingle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alright. Evil Shawn’s instructions were clear: do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> engage anyone from the station. But, if the goal is to not appear suspicious, and if this guy has at least a cordial relationship with his evil counterpart, maybe it’s best if he just goes with the flow. It tends to work out better in the end anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he smiles pleasantly at Pretty Boy, who just seems to get more and more nervous as seconds tick by. At one point the guy starts looking at his own feet, as if fascinated. He’s very obviously trying to work up the nerve to tell him something, and suddenly Shawn realizes it may not be his place to hear what Pretty Boy has to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second, he wishes he were already in Step 2 of the plan, when Evil Shawn’s supposed to join him out here and figure out how to get him back to Kansas. Or to non-evil Santa Barbara, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pretty Boy clears his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you know, we’ve been friends for a while, haven’t we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Numbly, he nods as he tries very hard not to anticipate what the guy’s probably going to tell him. He’s not sure Evil Shawn swings that way: he sure as hell doesn’t, other than a couple drunk nights and some quite explicit pictures he gets in his head now and then that he’ll never tell Gus about. Oh, and Lassie’s ass is obviously exempt of any- “Okay, so. I wasn’t going to tell you. In fact, I’m pretty sure it should, it should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> telling you this. But, you know Carol. She’s not exactly the best at- emotions and stuff, so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pretty Boy takes the chance to look him in the eye, apparently expecting some kind of reaction from him. This Carol chick, Shawn guesses, is probably someone he should give a crap about. Maybe she’s Evil Shawn’s girlfriend? Wife? Maybe what Pretty Boy’s telling him is that-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, here I go. Please don’t kill me and pretty pretty please don’t let the Chief kill me - you know he will, or at least fire me, or castrate me at least. But I’m sort of- kind of- seeing Carol?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his mind, Shawn goes over a wide range of emotions, trying to choose the most appropriate one. Luckily, he doesn’t really need to: a red-faced, wide-eyed Evil Shawn does it for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. Sneaky, man,” he tells his clone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evil Shawn, however, seems to have forgotten all about his earlier freakout in favor of having a new one. This is obviously a very weird parallel universe where Gus has taken over his body, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> then proceeded to take fashion advice from Lassiter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What-?” Pretty Boy’s scrunched up face, though still pretty, really does convey the entirety of his sudden confusion. “Shawn, what is going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evil Shawn, true to his name, answers him with a push. A weak one, though Shawn himself couldn’t have done it better, to be honest. He follows it with a punch that Pretty Boy stops mid-air and a growl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on, you say? What about, my best friend is a frigging backstabber, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! That’s not-” Pretty Boy gets stopped by a slap, in true catfight fashion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, that’s like, the very least you deserve. You’re doing his girl, dude,” Shawn points out helpfully. The other two men shoot him a look of bewilderment, followed by disgust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Carol is not-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ex-girlfriend?,” the psychic guesses. When Pretty Boy shakes his head, Shawn tries again. “Sister?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Carol’s my- She’s Carol.” To be fair, even though he’s calmed down, Evil Shawn still glares at Pretty Boy at times. “She’s like, she’s-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think the word’s ‘stepmom’,” Pretty Boy supplies. And, oh, this is all starting to sound much dirtier. If he could, Shawn would go get some popcorn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great, O’Hara. Just- make it better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That makes Shawn freeze. For the very first time, he takes a good look at Pretty Boy. His slight if well-toned body does remind him a bit of Ewan O’Hara, to be honest. His face, though (barring the stubble and the absolute maleness of it all) is all-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Juliet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His whisper, however, is promptly and aggressively ignored. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, in any case- It’d be ‘ex’ stepmother, and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think my dad cares about the ‘ex’ thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please don’t tell the Chief!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, of course, because in Shawn’s life bizarre is just ordinary on steroids, that’s the cue for none other than Henry Spencer to enter the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grumpier-looking if possible, and dressed in a surprisingly well-tailored suit, he hasn’t even had the decency to grow a proper Chief moustache. Detective O’Hara visibly gulps; Evil Shawn recoils a bit before scoffing. But Chief Spencer’s glare soon zeroes-in on Shawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah. Things just keep getting more and more interesting. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, this one's taking kind of long to update, and I'm quite sorry about that. RL etc etc. Still, I haven't forgotten about it, and I'm still working out the plot and what to do with so many characters.<br/>(Also, all through this chapter I kept picturing Shawn picturing moustachied-Lassiter from The Polarizing Express, and for a moment I regretted not making him the Chief. Maybe someday.)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, honestly, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I really wanted to include AUs at some point, but I had so many terrible ideas I finally decided to try... this. Whatever it is.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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